


We'll wander back and home to bed

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Clothed Sex, Does Armor Count As Clothes?, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-War of the Ring, Returning Home, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 00:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19896859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: After his latest campaign, Aragorn comes back distraught, and it's up to Faramir to get his king's nerves back on the right track again.





	We'll wander back and home to bed

**Author's Note:**

> A small indulgent piece. MermaidSheenaz kept an eye on me to keep me from screwing it up too badly. Everything else is totally my fault ;)

The day was cold and Faramir could not suppress the shiver that ran through him. Tugging his dressing gown tightly around himself he added more wood to the fire, then turned back to the desk. Aragorn was due to be back soon, coming home from his latest campaign, and Faramir hoped that everything went as well as always… if one could think in such terms about battling the Haradrim, that is. 

He would have liked to go, but Aragorn had been unmoved in his decision - The Prince of Ithilien should stay and keep an eye on the city, while he went out to  hammer peace deals into place… with his sword, if needed be. And so Faramir, remembering well his duties as the Steward of Gondor he still was, had stayed in Minas Tirith, nervously anticipating his king’s return as soon as Elessar had stepped outside the citadel’s gates. 

It had been two weeks ago. 

And now, with the city mostly covered in snow, with the evenings turning colder with every passing day, Faramir could not help but pray that Aragorn was alright out there, and - hopefully - on his way back into his arms. 

They had been lovers for almost a year, and while it brought Faramir a great joy on an everyday basis, it filled him with unspeakable levels of fear every time they were apart. Thankfully, it was to be the last campaign with his king participating, and Faramir would be able to sleep peacefully, holding his liege tightly and murmuring soothing things into his skin. 

Sighing wistfully, thinking about Aragorn’s return and a feast that would undoubtedly follow the peace treaties - for Faramir had no doubt in his mind that the High King Elessar would be able to settle a peace deal between Gondor and Harad - the prince dragged himself back to his desk. His private study was warming up slightly, thank the Valar, and he would be able to finish the notes he was working on. It was late, but he was determined to see his little project to the end - he had been thinking about it for over a month before he had finally found enough free time in the evenings to do some research. He knew just how fascinated Aragorn was with herbs, especially the Gondor variety, and Faramir had the craziest idea to put everything he could find about them together and present to the king as a homecoming gift. 

He was nearly done with the project for the night, only a few pages remaining to be written down in a leather-bound notebook, when there was a shout outside. Faramir jerked his head up, staring at the window, a small smile tugging up his lips. More shouts followed, some happy exclamations joining them, and Faramir closed his book and put aside his quill. 

The king had returned. 

Smiling happily, Faramir went to add more wood to the fire, knowing that Aragorn would be chilled upon his return. The road was long and the weather was harsh, after all. He did not bother to go out and meet the king - Aragorn was well aware of where his steward would be. Those were, after all, their private quarters, with their bedroom lying just behind the door at the back of the study. The prince grinned, then went to fetch some wine and two tall cups, intent on making sure that the king would receive a warm welcome upon his return. No sooner were the cups filled, when heavy footsteps rang outside the door. They were rushed, though,  _ too quick by any standards, _ and Faramir turned to the door worriedly, just in time to see it swing open. 

Aragorn stood before him, his chest heaving, eyes wildly taking in the room, searching for Faramir. His shoulders shook slightly, little snowflakes falling from the heavy mantle he was wearing, wet hair hanging in strands where it flowed from underneath the crown. He was still wearing his armor, the chestplate and the pauldrons, the chainmail underneath rattling with a distinctive noise.

“Aragorn?” Faramir asked tentatively, trying to catch Aragorn’s gaze. The king looked at him sharply and, before the prince could utter another word, he strode forward, banging the door shut behind him with a careless swing of an arm. Faramir took a step closer, but soon found himself immobilized as two trembling arms wrapped around him, squeezing tightly enough to rob him of his breath.    
“Le cuin,” Aragorn muttered into his gown, sliding his lips from the material, along his shoulder, until he encountered the soft skin on his throat. Faramir shivered again, feeling the tension vibrating through his king’s body. Something was wrong,  _ something was very wrong indeed, _ for Aragorn had seldom been as rigid in his arms as he was now. 

Pulling away slightly, just enough to look into Aragorn’s eyes and find them wild again, Faramir bit his lip before he asked the most pending question.    
“Are you hurt?” It was not unfounded - Elessar smelled of blood, and for once it wasn’t orcish. But, as it was devoid of the foul stench of the corrupted flesh, it could as well have been Aragorn’s. Thankfully, the king gave the tiniest of shakes of his head.    
“No.” He stated, staring at Faramir, before he was surging forward and smashing their mouths together. 

He was still wearing his armor, and the breastplate pressed against Faramir’s chest, chilling him to the bone, when Aragorn pushed one hand into his hair and held him in place. The prince groaned, trying to slow the kiss down, but Aragorn was relentless in his single-minded quest and soon, Faramir had not choice but to let him do as he pleased, opening his mouth and allowing Aragorn’s insistent tongue inside. The king growled at that, his fingers tightening in Faramir’s hair, tugging his head back and to the side, exposing his neck to a series of hungry kisses. 

It was unusual for Elessar to be so demanding - he was one to make love languidly and with as much control as he could muster - and Faramir felt his knees weakening at the sudden change. He could not complain, though, especially since it looked like it was exactly what his king needed. Aragorn was kissing him like a man drowning - in adrenaline or despair, Faramir could not tell, but he did not protest when he was walked backwards, toward his desk. 

Neither did he protest when his backside met the hard edge of the desk. Aragorn pressed him against it with urgency fitting a battlefield, and Faramir could only moan when trembling hands ran down his back, before they slipped beneath the gown he was wearing, pushing it to the side. Using a moment of Elessar’s distraction, for the king seemed focused solely on mapping out the contours of his back, Faramir reached out and pulled the mantle away from his shoulders. Then, with a few practiced moves, he unclasped the chestplate, tugging it off and letting it fall to the floor next to the desk. 

The desk he was being pushed against the next moment, with Aragorn’s mouth once more attached firmly to his neck, his king’s breathing hard and harsh, quick puffs fanning against the nape of Faramir’s neck and ruffling the fine hair there. 

At Aragorn’s insistence, he moved further back, until he could sit on top of the desk properly. Before he could do that, however, he was reminded about  a very ornate inkwell that dug painfully into the side of his hip. Hissing, he reached out blindly to move it away,  but the little wince he couldn’t stop had been noticed by Aragorn, who drew back as if burned. 

It took a few seconds, Aragorn staring at him wide-eyed, looking almost as if someone had hit him over the head with a club. Faramir could almost  _ see _ him thinking and, not wanting the king to withdraw completely, he hurriedly got rid of the offending inkwell, before grabbing two handfuls of Aragorn’s tunic.  The crunch of chainmail underneath the leather was loud in the otherwise quiet room, and the king glanced down at Faramir’s fingers, swallowing heavily.    
“Faramir…” he rasped, dragging his gaze back up, meeting his prince’s eyes.    
“Come here.” It was a whisper, nothing more, but it seemed to open the floodgates anew. 

Aragorn fell against him, hands finding purchase on Faramir’s back and drawing him closer, effectively pressing his hips between Faramir’s widely splayed thighs. His fingers clawed at Faramir’s back, madly seeking more skin, uncomprehending of the thin layer of material still wrapped around his prince’s flesh. Faramir groaned, shifting his hips instinctively, his body seeking the answering hardness which it couldn’t find - with so much chainmail between them, Aragorn’s front was one rigid line, pressing against him with short little thrusts, almost mindless in their manner. 

Faramir wanted to say something about disrobing, about stripping the many layers down and getting to bed, but his words failed him when Aragorn growled deep in his throat, his tongue pushing between Faramir’s lips and filling his mouth almost as if he was trying to merge them both together. The prince had never been kissed by anyone just like he was kissed by Aragorn, and this moment was no different from the other times. The king kissed as if his life depended on it, throwing his whole body into the motion, hands relentlessly scratching over Faramir’s back and making him arch up into the caress. 

“Aragorn,” he managed to mutter between them, gasping for air when the king rocked his hips just  _ right, _ sending a thrill of pleasure down his spine. He could feel his manhood throbbing, trapped in the folds of his robe as it was, and it took all he had not to keen like an injured animal.  Aragorn’s movements were precise yet jittery, belonging more to the battlefield than between two lovers, but Faramir knew that this was exactly what his king needed right now. He had had his own share of post-fight tumbles in the fallen leaves in Ithilien, after all. 

Threading his fingers through Aragorn’s hair, tilting the crown a bit in the process, Faramir tugged him in for a deep kiss. 

They didn’t last long after that, not with Aragorn’s body twitching against his, not with Faramir’s throat filling with helpless moans. The release, when it came, was swift and not as ground-shaking as some of their nights together had been, but it did not matter at all.  What was important, what finally settled their hearts and minds, were the few blissful moments afterwards, when Aragorn slumped against him and buried his face in Faramir’s shoulder, panting heavily, still clutching him close.

The peace didn’t hold and soon, Aragorn was pulling away, his body tensing up again in a desperate attempt at stopping the incessant shaking that started to creep over his muscles. Faramir let him, keeping one hand on his shoulder, sliding it down to take a hold of his wrist. Connected like that, grounding the both of them, he led his king to the bath chamber. 

The water in the spacious bath had long since grown cold, having been prepared for Faramir long before Aragorn’s return, but they both knew that a bit of cool water would not hurt them. They had both been rangers before, dipping into chilly streams had been a part of their lives and so, the king did not protest when Faramir disrobed him slowly, letting layers of armor and cloth fall down to the floor, leaving only naked skin. 

Once Aragorn was completely bare, Faramir paused, his eyes transfixed on a large bruise covering his king’s side. It was long, stretching from the middle of his left thigh almost to the bottom part of his ribs. Horrified, the prince reached out to brush feather-light fingers over it, gaze flickering to Aragorn’s downcast eyes.    
“You said you weren’t hurt,” he accused, way too worried to keep his voice low. Aragorn winced, shaking his head dismissively.    
“‘Tis nothing, merely a bruise. I am fine,” he added, finally looking at his prince. Faramir gritted his teeth but said nothing, holding out a hand for Aragorn to take, leading him to the bath and away from the pile of clothes and armor at their feet. 

It was much later when Aragorn finally said what had happened. They were both in bed finally,  dressed in nothing and covered with thick furs, curled into each other like wolf cubs together in their nest. Aragorn had his arms looped around Faramir’s waist, being held in turn by the prince’s hands running mindless patterns across his back.    
“What happened out there?” Faramir finally asked, his voice barely a whisper in the darkness.    
“We lost a man,” the king answered, equally quietly. It made Faramir frown - it wasn’t the first time they had lost someone on the battlefield, yet it shook his lover to his very core. It must have been personal somehow, and that worried Faramir even more. Aragorn was not a person to be easily affected by the battlefield. Granted, he was the opposite of heartless, but he knew well that war brought casualties. Faramir didn’t dare to ask for more explanation, though, aware that his king would talk when he was ready. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long. 

“He was a brilliant man… Reminded me of you, actually,” Aragorn glanced up at him. “He was a good warrior, but he was more interested in the lore than in fighting. He would always read a book when we stopped for rest… he knew a lot about Gondor’s history, too, especially about the second age. I wanted you to meet him once we returned,” he paused, closing his eyes and hiding his face in Faramir’s neck. “He looked a lot like you, too.”    
“What happened to him?” 

There was a heavy pause filled with even heavier breathing. And then, tentatively, Aragorn spoke again.    
“He was forever talking about the kings of the past… recalling old tales and legends.  He ended up riding next to me, and I allowed it. The safest place is next to the king, is it not? Even Beregond approved. Everything went well, until we were already headed back to Minas Tirith. There was a band of wayward orcs trailing us that nobody saw. They attacked in the night, just as we were crossing Gondor’s border. He jumped on me, pulling me off Brego…” Aragorn trailed off, and Faramir recalled the ugly bruise covering his king’s hip. “He was shot with the arrow meant for me, Mîr,” he mumbled, his body shivering despite the furs they were wrapped in. 

On instinct, Faramir tightened his arms, inclining his head to kiss Aragorn’s temple.    
“He died.” The prince surprised even himself with that statement. Aragorn nodded.    
“We had to fight. The orcs weren’t numerous, but they were fierce, and it took us some time to get rid of them. When I got back to him, there was nothing any of us could do…”   
“I’m sorry…” Faramir whispered, pressing his lips to Aragorn’s temple again, rubbing a hand up his shoulder soothingly.    
“I didn’t even know his name… not the real one. Everyone was calling him  _ Rin… _ Beregond told me later that his real name was Dervorin.” 

With a sigh, Faramir leaned away, then scooted lower on the pillows, until he was level with Aragorn. With careful fingers, he tilted his head up, until he could catch Elessar’s gaze with his own.    
“I am sorry that Gondor has lost her faithful soldier, and that you have lost one of your noble men,” he said, hoping he sounded as calm as he wished to. Aragorn inhaled shakily. “But I am  _ not  _ sorry for him saving your life.” With that, he leaned in and kissed his king softly, reassuringly. “He remained true to his duty, even if it cost him his life. He will be remembered, Aragorn.” 

A jittery nod was his answer, and then, “He had a family. I have to talk to them tomorrow.”    
“You don’t have to go alone… I’ll come with you, if you wish.” Faramir had done his fair share of such conversations, he knew just how unpleasant they could be. Aragorn was the king, nobody would throw accusations at him, but losing one’s son or husband still hurt, and the prince was well aware that Aragorn would be crushed having to deliver such news. He was ready to go there alone, if needed be, but he knew that the king wanted to do it himself.    
“Hannon le,” Aragorn mumbled at last, tucking his head back under Faramir’s chin, a faint sigh escaping him. 

“Sleep, my king. You’re home.” Threading his fingers slowly through Aragorn’s freshly washed hair, Faramir let himself relax at last. In the morning, they would dress and go to Dervorin’s family, trying not to shake apart when they deliver the grim news.  Later, he will drag his king back to their chambers and feed him, maybe try to lift his spirits a bit with the nearly-finished herb notebook waiting on his desk. For now, though, he could sleep, happy to have Aragorn back in one piece.    
  


_ Le cuin - you’re alive _ _   
_ _ Hannon le - thank you _


End file.
